


Gods

by Evak2121 (AngAngLove)



Series: gods cry too [1]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: AU, And I don't know how to use this website, And They're sad, And then they're happy again, Ballet Dancer!Even, I'm really sorry it's not betaed, M/M, Punk!Isak, they're happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngAngLove/pseuds/Evak2121
Summary: Life is not always easy, but it's worth it.





	Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote it for this one beautiful and amazing little person that I adore and she wanted me to post it here. I'm not sure it's a good idea, but whatever. This is the very first ff I've ever written, I'm sorry. It's not betaed and it's full of mistakes, so don't read it. Please.

Do you know those lazy mornings when time stops until it’s already 8am and nothing can hurt you unless you let it hurt. But it’s good, so good to be hurt sometimes, to feel you can live so hard it’s too much and you feel too many things at the same time, but it’s better than to feel nothing, not to be a void among gardens full of flowers. You want to taste the colours and feel the warmth of the sun and hear the laughter. Grass tickling your bare feet. Clouds in your teeth. You want, but you were taught not to be greedy. And then one day, when it’s raining and you can’t see very well, you meet the most beautiful garden full of roses with thorns, and you want to touch every single flower even if it hurts sometimes. And love hurts 126 days a year, and it doesn’t for 115 nights and you feel numb for 121 mornings, but the taste of honey that drips from the petals is like a drug and you never have enough – each morning like another fix in your veins. And even if it hurts sometimes, you live.

  
Even ran his hand through Isak’s blue hair that one lazy morning. He is in love and Isak is his garden. He could touch him, Isak let him touch and touch over and over again. Skin to skin until he couldn’t tell where he ended and where Isak started, vast fields of skin forming one big meadow. His lips a beautiful burgundy colour – red and purple after hours of kissing and lashes casting a shadow on his high cheekbones. Even frowned a little at his slightly sunken cheeks – he was not eating much again no matter how many breakfasts he would make. Yet, it was not like those times when Even was so self-conscious about his body, because he can feel just a little bit of fat on his belly jiggle when he was doing all his brisé volé’s, because “You should see other dancers, Isak! They’re so beautiful and light on their feet and they look so perfect and-” and Isak would never let him finish, kissing him on the mouth with a promise to break other dancers’ legs and Even would never be sure whether he was joking or not, but he still would laugh it off and bury his face in the crock of Isak’s neck, hot breath dancing on his pale skin, goosebumps under his fingertips.

  
He should make him pancakes today.

 

*

 

His hands were bright pink. Matching Isak’s little face. Brown and pink, freckles and blushes.

“It doesn’t look that bad, come on!” he cried after him. He couldn’t stop laughing once Isak washed his hair. It was not his fault that the other boy can’t tell colours apart.  
“How am I supposed to know what’s misty rose or whatever the fuck it says on the stupid bottle?” Isak yelled from their bedroom. “Roses are fucking red, Even!”  
He washed his hands again, the cheap hair dye not that bad after all. Barely any pink disappeared, but he dried them off and went to the other room. The doors were open – Isak wasn’t that mad at him, thank god.

“Come here, let me see”, his voice much calmer, sweet but still with a little bit of humour in it. Isak was under the duvet they shared, long legs probably tucked up under his chin, trying to be as small as he could. Even could swear his heart almost melted at the sight. “Isak, please”.  
He could hear a long whine before Isak’s pink head contrasted beautifully with their blue duvet. His eyes were slightly red and his nose almost as pink as his hair. “Oh, baby, don’t cry”, his hand dived into the curls of the younger boy. It was still as soft as always. Even smiled. “I like it.”  
“You do?” Isak’s voice barely anything but a whisper, hands grasping the pillow tightly.  
“Yeah, it’s so cute, pumpkin”, Even’s smile blinding until a thought ran through his mind. “Should I call you a raspberry now?”  
Isak’s groan echoed between the walls of their tiny flat like a raw from an offended lion.

 

It was barely a few hours later when Isak walked into the bathroom as Even was talking a bath, an electric razor in his hand. Even’s smile fell from the clouds.

 

“Will you stop sulking already?”  
Small hands on his shoulders and quiet ‘i love you’s’ in his ear. He could smell Isak’s red Marlboros in his breath. Like his favourite corner at home full of his mother’s books.  
His little prince was gone.

 

*

 

Sometimes when it’s so good, it gets so bad. Really bad. He doesn’t even know who’s shouting anymore. His lips wet and his jaw clenched. Nails cutting his skin open, battle wounds. It’s almost always about money. They’re young and in love, but money is so important and he sometimes doesn’t understand why until he can’t make Isak breakfast because there’s nothing in the fridge other than two slices of cheese with dried edges and a little bit of spoilt milk he can’t even put into his coffee.  
So he keeps shouting and shouting, because he doesn’t understand and Isak is so stubborn, he’s never the one to let go.  
“Isak, I can’t fucking go to my mother asking for money again!” he cries. And maybe he is too proud and too upset, but he wants to show everyone that he can be a dancer and still be okay. He’s not.  
“I have nothing else to sell, Even. I have nothing else!” Isak’s voice is already breaking, hot tears in his emeralds. “I sold my last three albums last week! I have two jobs that I’m not sure I can keep, because that fucking manager doesn’t like my fucking tattoos. Your tips don’t help much. And this flat is ridiculously expensive, but I can’t find anything cheaper. And your fucking school costs us a fucking fortune!” his hair is now back to blonde, he really needs that job. “And I want you to be fucking happy, but I don’t know if I can make you happy anymore!” Even can hear how Isak’s throat is closing, words too real to swallow. And he’s crying too, because Isak has to be happy, he just has to. And Even doesn’t know what to do anymore, he doesn’t understand this world. So he cries when Isak slams the door and he thinks he’d rather listen to Isak’s shouting than be alone in this silence.

  
He’s the one that apologises at 3am when Isak comes back home, soaking wet with two traces on his face. His cigarette pack empty. They’re gonna be okay.

 

*

 

“Why are your feet so big?” and he laughs, because they’re sitting on their yellow sofa in the middle of a cold December, a hot cocoa in his hand, chocolate was too expensive. He was surprised when Isak offered him a foot massage as the younger boy absolutely hates feet.  
So he laughs, because he knows Isak loves him. He closes his eyes as Isak’s short fingers press into the sole of his right foot, and it feels so good. Even used to be so embarrassed about his feet, because they were not pretty. Blue and purple mean hard work. Two of his toes are missing toenails and his ankle sometimes looks like it shouldn’t be bent like that, all toes crooked and funny. And Isak deserves someone with pretty feet.

  
But then one night Even woke up to Isak slowly touching his feet like it was Even’s most precious possession. “You know how much I hate feet”, Isak’s voice even softer than his fingers. “But damn, Even, yours”, he groaned and Even almost cried, “Yours I adore.”

  
Even didn’t sleep with socks on that night.

 

*

 

“You look good in leather, did you know that?” Isak’s voice teasing and sharp, but warmth still oozing from his thin lips. Even doesn’t turn around, blush like pink dust on his cheeks. He buries his face in the high collar of Isak’s jacket. “Yeah, I was just cold.” He misses the small smile on Isak’s face as he glances at the stock of Even’s sweaters on the chair.  
Isak doesn’t need to know that Even missed him so much.

 

*

 

Isak sometimes comes home at 4am in the morning reeking of cheap beer and public places. And Even is okay with that. He knows being together 24/7 is not healthy, and being separated hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain when it’s in small doses. So he puts on a film which title he didn’t even check and he makes some buttered popcorn and he must remind himself not to make too much, because Isak is not here and popcorn doesn’t taste that good when it’s cold. He keeps falling asleep only to wake up 5 minutes later, trying to tell himself that he doesn’t even look at the clock. And he’s not wearing Isak’s Ramones t-shirt, because he misses him. He blinks and suddenly he can see the end credits on the screen and he swears quietly, because being alone paradoxically makes him tired and his eyes stubbornly stay wide open, because he doesn’t want to miss Isak’s face.

And then suddenly it’s 4:06am and he can hear the clumsy way Isak is trying to put the key into the keyhole and it only, it’s an eternity, takes him 86 seconds to open the door. The room is barely lit, but he remembers Isak’s face perfectly, he remembers the early morning look. He doesn’t even have to look. He still stares.

There’s red lipstick on Isak’s lips, his cupid’s bow even deeper than during the day. Even could drink nectar from it and feel like a god, invincible and omnipresent. They’re gods that feed of each other’s bodies, all perverted and beautiful. And maybe he should feel uneasy and jealous, but then he remembers that Isak likes pretty boys with long limbs and innocent eyes that have seen too much.  
“Even, look”, he yells, because vodka is always too much for him. “Eva wanted to make me pretty for you.” And Even takes his hands and leads him to their bedroom. He takes off his clothes, kisses him on the forehead and brings him close to his chest. Isak’s lips still as red as two bricks that can make a house.

Isak sometimes comes home at 4am, but he always comes back.

 

*

 

It’s both Monday and Thursday and he doesn’t even know if he’s still alive, because he can’t feel anything, his eyes have been closed for the past few hours, ears only picking up the white noise. He’s numb, but he feels a lot. He wants a cheese toast. He’s not hungry at all. He only sees when two arms are wrapped around his stomach like a life buoy that saves him from drowning, a warm voice in his hair and shaky breath tickling his neck.

He feels that he has a body.

 

*

 

After each episode, Even feels ugly. He skips his shifts at Kaffebrenneriet, but the owner likes him. He misses practice, because he can’t look at himself in the mirror. His ears too big, his lips too chapped, his skin not clear enough, he is too lanky, his tour en l'air not light enough. He doesn’t like it when Isak looks at him. Too bad Isak always does. They’re sitting on that yellow sofa eating dinner, because they still can’t afford a table, but it’s good. Feet tangled together, it’s hard not to touch all the time, so they always do.

“Stop looking at me”, it’s here again and Even tries to sound nonchalant digging into his pasta. He wants to laugh, but it only comes out like a weird combination of animal sounds. God, he even sounds ugly. Isak is not answering for a while and Even is too scared to look at him. He doesn’t want to see himself in Isak’s irises, he doesn’t look good in green. Three minutes pass and Even knows, because he’s been counting time for the past four days; he’s a time lord, a bad one, hours make him older. Isak stands up and puts his bowl on the floor. And suddenly there’s also a black t-shirt and Thom Yorke’s tired face is staring back at him.

“Can you see this one?” Isak asks and Even finally looks up only to face Isak’s broad shoulders. He sees faces and words and weird geometric figures – black on his white skin, some darker than others. “The one with that skull?”, he asks again and Even can’t even tell if that’s really a skull or a clown or maybe a dog, it’s hard to tell. “Got that one when I was 15. Jonas and I were drunk out of our minds and it seemed like a good idea back then. I knew Jonas was a shit artist”, he’s laughing and it’s impossible for Even to stay emotionless when he does so. He’s beautiful, stars in his eyes from when he reads about them in his books and when he’s looking at Even. “It’s so fucking ugly, Even. I’m surprised you find me hot with it”, and he does. He finds every little part of Isak stunning that it’s sometimes scary, because he can’t breathe properly. He’s in love.

  
Even goes to practice the next day – a green shirt on, because Isak told him he looks hot in green.

 

*

 

“How are you even a couple?” Mikael asks one day when they’re tying their pointe shoes. His feet don’t ache anymore. “He looks like a cheap version of Marilyn Manson and you’re a little Tinker Bell that had too much milk.”  
Even laughs, because it’s true. They look like Heaven and Hell. Two worlds that should never collide. But they did. And the explosion was spectacular. “Yeah, we are a bit different”, but they’re really not. They’re one person in two bodies.

 

*

 

Even wanted to believe it was not fucking hot. They were in the bathroom at his dance school, the one where people didn’t go, because it was way too far way. He was on his knees, praying to his lover. His tongue strong and wet slowly lapping against Isak’s puckered hole. Pink and glistening with saliva, warm around his fingers. He could hear the wet sounds that were coming from within, and he was so fucking turned on he couldn’t keep his own groans from coming out. Isak was above him, a king with his faithful servant. This little rascal was still smoking a cigarette, his own tongue curling around his lip piercing he got a month ago. His golden locks like a crown, thick and slightly greasy.

He was creating a masterpiece, Isak’s body fluid like an expensive material, silk and leather, oceans of moans. In moments like these Isak looked so much younger Even felt like he shouldn’t be touching, he was not worthy with his calloused hands and tired eyes. Isak was so beautiful when his knees were barely keeping him up, hands tightly grasping the edges of the toilet. It was so disgusting none of them cared. He could see his own spit running down Isak’s defined thighs when he pulled back to take a breath. It stopped around the back of his knees, as Even smeared it across his soft skin. One of his hand on his own cock, heavy and hot and familiar.  
Another groan escaped from his throat; his thoughts disappearing along with his dick inside of his boyfriend.

 

*

 

It wasn’t very often that Even woke up alone in their bed. Isak wasn’t a morning person, he would spend hours after waking up in bed; he would still lay in bed after those nights when sleep didn’t come. Even’s eyes still heavy with dreams couldn’t adjust to the bright room fast enough, but his hands were already searching for the warm body of his boyfriend. His side of the bed, which really wasn’t much of his side as they would sleep wrapped in each other so tightly Even was Isak and Isak was Even, was cold and empty. And his hands cold and empty too.

He put his feet on the ground already blindly looking for a shirt, because it was November and Isak sometimes forgot to close the window after waking up in the middle of the night to smoke two cigarettes in a row. There were some noises coming from the kitchen and then he heard one of Tchaikovsky’s pieces and soon after he saw short hair and a pink sweater and limbs that didn’t know how to move to the melody. Isak was wearing his boxer shorts with that sweater he bought him two years ago, which Isak laughed at, but hold for a few seconds too long, because it was so soft. His feet were trying to copy some of the steps Even showed him the other day; a complete disaster that was. He only stopped when he smelled the eggs burning.

“And I thought I was the dancer in this relationship”, his voice loud and happy, a sun he finally found. Isak spun around quickly, face slightly flushed, a spatula in his hand. “Oh god, you scared me”, his eyes were bright and a shy smile forming on his lips. Even circled his arms around Isak’s waist, burying his nose in the pink material.  
“You’re a shit dancer, but I could eat you up in this sweater.”  
“Well, to be fair you did eat me out in it”, Isak laughed quietly, bold as ever. There was no place for embarrassment. They were a family, they were in love. And Even wondered in that one second how one measures love. Is it about how much you love or maybe how long that love lasts? But it didn’t matter, because their love was eternal.  
Isak took the eggs from the pan and put some on two plates. A glass of orange juice already prepared for Even. There was food in the fridge, and smiles on their faces and their shitty flat full of love it was almost bursting out of the windows. They are okay.


End file.
